


A Lonely Soul

by vindictivewithvendettas



Series: Embraced By The Void [1]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Give this poor snail some love, hes stuck in a rock with no friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:48:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27185431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vindictivewithvendettas/pseuds/vindictivewithvendettas
Summary: The Snail Shaman has been alone for most of his long life, and he yearns for company; any company.Now, the shadows are deepening, and a tiny warrior is reaching for his hand...Post Embrace the Void
Series: Embraced By The Void [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985056
Kudos: 52





	A Lonely Soul

The Shaman closed his eyes. The rosy glow of the Ancestral Mound shone through their lids.

He had long since forgotten his name, and the names and faces of those he held dear. He was alone, in this Mound, forever chained to its bone-paved pathways.

The only face he had seen in who knows how long was a blank mask connected to dark limbs and an old, worn nail. The stranger had killed the Elder Baldur stirring up trouble above the Shaman and then left. Leaving him alone again.

He wondered how his family was doing. Every once in a while, the blank-faced figure whom he had gifted his spell to would return, each time empowered by something new; something that tickled at his memory, poking and prodding, pushing him to remember...

But he didn’t. He never did. The Shaman could attach labels to the spells and charms—uncle, aunt, cousin—but he could never remember their names.

By his ancestors, he wished he could.

But who were these ancestors of his? He couldn’t remember them, either. Perhaps they were too old, or maybe his memory had been eroding away along with the minds of everyone around him.

...They were never good company, anyways. Even before that rancid air took their consciences away.

So the Shaman remained alone.

***

He used to count the days. He stopped after about 305, finding no benefit to the activity. Now he wishes he never ceased.

How long had he been here? How much longer must he remain? He didn’t remember anymore, and that infuriated him more than anything else.

Maybe one day that pale, yet dark stranger would return and tell him.

***

The air felt different. The Vengeflies and Baldurs no longer had that orange  
haze in their eyes. 

The Shaman figured that he should be happy. His only companions in the silence were freed from their affliction... but at what cost?

The shadows were deeper. They writhed and wriggled in the pink light, and only seemed to grow stronger in the brightness.

The Shaman was... out of his depth here. He knew Soul, but not this.

Tiny footsteps sounded from behind him—tiny pitter-patters that echoed throughout the chamber. The Shaman turned and saw the stranger... but something was off about them.

They were different. Stronger. Darker than before. He felt fear chill his body.

The stranger removed their mask. Eight white eyes stared up at the Shaman, shrewd and glimmering in the light.

Those eyes belonged to something old... older than Soul, older than the Totem in the upper part of the Mound, older than the Mound itself. 

The Shaman knew that whatever they were could kill him with no effort... but the question was, would it?

The little shadow reached out with a hand. The Shaman took it with no hesitation. He accepted whatever his fate would be. He had lived long enough.

As he grasped the other’s hand in his, he felt the spiritual chains tethering him to the Ancestral Mound break.

***

The kingdom, it seemed, had fallen and was slowly rebuilding itself. The orange plague was the result of a vengeful goddess wishing for others to remember her. And the little shadow was the god who stopped her.

The Shaman now understood why he sensed such untapped potential in the little one... they were truly, truly a marvel.

***

The little house in Dirtmouth was a quaint place to live. The Shaman had taken his title and made it his name, and made a living selling charms that would aid future mages in their quests.

He had made new friends in some other odd newcomers: the Mask Maker, a Relic Seeker named Lemm, and a weary old traveler named Quirrel. The four of them were thick as thieves, often pooling resources to pay bills or fund another’s adventures. 

The shadow—the Shade Lord—checked in on them every once in a while, waving and showing scribbles of whatever they had been doing. The Shaman patted them on the head every time and commented on their charm load, teasing them if they weren’t wearing any spell- or Soul-related charms.

It was a different life, sure, but far more preferable to his old one.


End file.
